


The fell winter in Gundabad

by Thorinsmut



Series: Free Orcs AU [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU: Erebor never fell, AU: free orcs, Complete, Friendship, Gen, One Shot, Starvation, the fell winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:02:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorinsmut/pseuds/Thorinsmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A followup to Diplomatic Relations</p><p>Erebor, being a well established mountain, has the food stores to survive the fell winter.<br/>Gundabad, home of the free Orcs, is far newer and does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The fell winter in Gundabad

.

The force of Dwarves stomped their way to a stop before the dark spiky rocks that framed the gates of Gundabad. The handful of Orc's who'd led them there cringed as they broke away to disappear in the rocks.

The Dwarves shifted, wary, distrustful murmurs traveling through their group as they waited in the thick-falling snow – the fog of their breaths panting out like smoke in the unnaturally cold air.

The gates of Gundabad opened briefly, and the Pale Orc strode out to meet them. The snow that fell on his broad shoulders melted off his skin in riverlets, catching in the divots of his scars.

A Dwarf stepped forward, gesturing the rest to stay _back_ , pushing back the hood of his cloak and loosening his scarf to bare his face.

“General Azog.” He greeted.

“Prince Thorin.” Azog answered.

“My friend.” Thorin said, reaching toward him, and in two huge steps the giant of an Orc had caught hold of him. He bent down to bump their foreheads together to shocked exclamations from the following Dwarves. After a moment Thorin moved to press their cheeks together instead, and there were answering exclamations from the Orcs the Dwarves hadn't even _seen_ hidden in the rocks.

Orc and Dwarf pushed each other back, both of their eyes searching the friend they had not seen in so many years.

“You came.” Azog said, his voice rough.

“Erebor does not forget her friends.” Thorin answered.

.

Thorin drew his warm coat of white fox fur closer around himself, the cold of the unnatural winter had pierced clear into the heart of the palace.

He would not have stopped at all, if he had not heard his own name in among the angry words one of the palace guards was growling, and the particular rough sibilance characteristic of Orc speech in the response.

Erebor had grown used to seeing Orc traders, but Thorin had not _known_ there were any Orcs in Erebor at this time. Usually they returned to Gundabad for the winter.

“If it _is_ important, we'll be sure it gets to Prince Thorin, but you _cannot_ stay here on the steps.” The guard was saying.

“It is _very_ important.” The Orc was replying, the entire group of them cringing but not backing down, “We will continue to wait here for the prince.”

“What is this?” Thorin asked, stepping out onto the palace steps, and the guard straightened up – a young one, very keen to impress.

“I'm sorry your Royal Highness. I'll get rid of them.” He said, but Thorin had waved him back, eyes falling on the Orcs.

They were all cringing so hard they could hardly stand, a show of extreme respect in the ways of _their_ people.

“Crown Prince Thorin.” the lead one greeted, bowing low.

“Tiimor?” Thorin asked, recognizing him as one of the guards who'd traveled in the delegation so long ago, and the Orc's relief was obvious. He looked _tired_ , thin and worn.

“What brings you here?” Thorin asked, and Tiimor drew a paper from somewhere in his spiky armor. It was sealed with dark wax, and Thorin accepted it curiously.

“An urgent letter from General Azog.” Tiimor said.

“Thank you for delivering it.” Thorin said, the polite forms coming to him naturally, “I will answer it as soon as I am able. Where are you staying?”

The Orc bowed again, “We came directly here.”

Thorin took in again the exhausted look of the group of Orcs, and a horrible sinking feeling settled in his gut.

“And how long ago was that?” He asked.

“Three days.” Tiimor cringed, and Thorin whirled on the guard.

“This. Is. Unacceptable!” he snapped, and the guard's eyes rolled, standing stiffly at attention. “If representatives of _any other_ nation came with a letter for me, would _they_ have been left to stand waiting for _days_ while I was told _nothing_?” he growled.

“Highness, I...” The guard tried, face pale, and it wasn't likely _his_ fault. He would only have been doing what he was told to do. Thorin took a deep breath and pulled back his anger. It was _unacceptable_ , but not the guard's fault.

“I will be speaking to your supervisor.” He said sharply, turning away from the petrified guard to see a few palace servants watching.

“Tell the Lady Dis and her children that I will be unable to join them for luncheon.” Thorin ordered, “The diplomatic quarters are empty. See them prepared for our guests at once.”

He turned back to the tired Orcs with a small smile, “Come with me, please.” he said.

 

The tavern was a quiet one, popular in the winter due to the warmth of the nearby forges. It was nearly empty, the midday meal not being their most popular.

“I need a private table, a large platter of the gravied mutton, and a round of ginger beers.” Thorin ordered. The proprietor rushed to do it, pausing with his eyes widening as he noticed _who_ Thorin had with him.

“I... I don't...” he wavered.

“Do you have a _problem_ with my guests?” Thorin asked, drawing himself up tall and regal. He was wearing the full royal apparel today, so there was no question _who_ was asking this. He was in no mood to deal with prejudices today.

“No, your Highness.” the proprietor bowed, and Thorin was seated with the Orcs in a quiet and out of the way table. The gravied mutton was delivered quickly – much more rice than meat, but that was understandable with the increased food prices in this unnatural winter.

“Not too quick.” Tiimor warned as the Orcs began serving themselves from the communal platter, “Don't make yourselves sick.”

“How long has it been since you ate?” Thorin asked quietly as he watched the careful way the Orcs ate, obviously holding themselves back.

Tiimor shook his head in answer, not meeting Thorin's eye.

“The letter.” he urged.

Thorin took it from his pocket, breaking the seal and sipping his ginger beer as the Orcs ate.

It was short and to the point. The Men the free Orcs of Gundabad traded with for food had lost most of their crop to the early winter, and had none to trade. The unnatural cold and the sudden influx of white wolves had destroyed entire flocks of their goats before they had time to compensate with more Warg patrols to keep them safe.

“Please,” the letter ended, “our children will starve, and there is no one else we can reach to for help.”

Thorin closed his eyes, refolding the letter.

It would not be an easy sell – to take from Erebor's food stores – and to deliver them would not be easy either. It would require a great deal of both strength and loyalty.

That Thorin would be going personally would not go over well at all either, but he _would_ be going. He had to be sure the food reached Gundabad.

“Tell me what you need,” he said, meeting Tiimor's eyes, “and I will do everything I can.”

.

“You came.” Azog said, his voice rough. He was still a giant of an Orc, massive and unbowed, but there was a leanness in his face that spoke of hunger.

“Erebor does not forget her friends.” Thorin answered.

“And Gundabad will not forget hers.” Azog answered, stepping back as he gestured toward the gates, “Come inside, where it is warm.” On the back of his belt, even after all these years, there was a blackened steel knife that Thorin recognized – and he smiled.

Thorin returned to his heavy sledge, pulling at the traces along with the loyal Dwarves who'd followed him – bringing as much food as they could to Gundabad as quickly as possible. The snow and ice, while they made using ponies impossible, had made it so Dwarves could pull far more than they might have been able to otherwise.

“We will eat tonight!” Azog roared as the line of sledges were pulled into the warmth of Gundabad and the gates closed behind them, to wild cheering.

“...how do we know _we're_ not on the menu?” the Dwarf to Thorin's left whispered, bristling, and Thorin threw him a look that silenced him. He ought to know better, after traveling so far in the company of the Orcs who delivered the letter.

“Because they are _more_ than smart enough to take the long view.” Thorin answered. He gathered his Dwarves together, leaving the sledges to be divided up by the Orcs as they followed Azog to a set of quarters that seemed to have been quickly emptied.

The stonework of Gundabad was _different_ , less a celebration of the stone than what a Dwarf would have made, and more as a surface for decoration. There was little that had not been covered in carvings or painted in bright colors – patterns swirling and geometric.

“You will be comfortable here.” Azog said, “There are beds, and running water. We would offer you more, if we _had_ more.”

“We have our own travel food.” Thorin told him, putting down his heavy pack and removing his warm gear in the warmth of the mountain, “We stay only one night, before we must return. The sledges and everything in them are yours.”

Azog nodded, “We are in your debt.”

“It is a small enough thing, to be repayed only when your stocks have recovered.” Thorin answered. The contract he had written up with Tiimor was near the top of his pack, and Thorin dug it out to hand to Azog, who tucked it into a pocket without looking at it, his eyes on Thorin. Thorin hadn't had the heart to make an advantageous contract, not for something like this. He asked only for payment for the food itself, the labor of the Dwarves who'd come with him he was paying himself.

“You are turning silver.” Azog said, gesturing at the gray that was beginning to touch Thorin's temples – the stress of the position of Crown Prince.

“Unlike you, I did not have the good fortune of starting that way.” Thorin answered, and Azog laughed his huge booming laugh. The Dwarves, who'd been setting up and talking quietly amongst themselves, dropped instantly into wary silence.

“Can you show me Gundabad?” Thorin asked. He was tired from the journey, and there was little enough time to rest, but he did not wish to miss this chance.

“Come.” Azog smiled through his sharp teeth, turning to lead the way.

“Thorin?” several of his loyal Dwarves who'd followed him here were stepping forward as if to stop him, worry clear on their faces.

“I am safe with Azog.” Thorin assured them. He knew that. Even after so many years, with only occasional letters delivered by Orcish traders between them, he _knew_ that. “I will return soon.”

 

Gundabad was strange, but beautiful – the parts that Azog felt comfortable showing him. Thorin could see stonemasonry that they must have learned from the Dwarves, and many other construction techniques. Everything was solid, and everything was decorated - the luxury of brightness and beauty that had been forbiden them as slaves of Mordor. In the safety of their mountain, Orcs were likely to dress in soft leathers and brilliant fabrics rather than the dark spikiness that characterized their armor style. Carved bone ornaments and obviously decorative scars were popular.

The fires that warmed the interior of the mountain were beautifully ingenious, and Azog proudly told him they were designed after the way Erebor's forge fires were used to heat the ovens that baked most of the mountain's bread. They might have been inspired by it, but they were brilliant in their own right, and the Orcs who oversaw them preened as they overheard Thorin's praising them to Azog.

Orclings ran through the mountain in giggling packs, often wearing nothing but paint in fierce designs, herded by patient older Orcs. Several of them growled at Thorin with fierce bared teeth and then shrieked at their own temerity and fled, and he could not help laughing.

The little Orclings seemed happy, but he could see the leanness and quiet lethargy of hunger in many of the adults and older children.

“How are conditions here?” he asked Azog, and the Orc shook his head.

“We had not _yet_ begun to eat the leather.” he said, and the words twisted in Thorin's stomach because the Orcs _had_ known that hunger. They had starved and _died_ of it when they won their freedom.

“You may yet.” Thorin said, “Erebor had little enough meat to spare. We brought mostly grains.”

“Tiimor told me.” Azog said, “It will be enough. With hunting and what we had already, we will not starve.”

“I wish I could have done more.” Thorin said, and Azog's huge hand rested warm on his shoulders.

“You have done more than we dared to hope.” the Orc answered. “We are still learning, in Gundabad. We should have had more reserves. We will not make that mistake again.” and led him on.

 

Azog paused before he led him into a room, gesturing him to quiet.

There was a pack of little Orclings all circled around a huge-muscled Orc sitting on the floor, most of them painted in bright colors, and one of them in the process of becoming so – the Orc's huge fingers dipping into pots of paint and obviously listening to the Orcling's instructions before painting them on.

“Bolg.” Azog said, and his son answered something distractedly in the harsh sounds of Orc speech, finishing his painting on the Orcling before looking up.

His eyes widened when he saw Thorin, and in a few quick words he'd scattered the Orclings away. He stood, settling himself solidly, and strode over to meet him. He was nearly as tall as Azog, and equally as broad, but with fewer scars. He wore leather and bright beads and handprints of paint from tiny Orcling hands.

“Bolg, this is Thorin.” Azog said, and the young Orc looked him over.

“He always believed you would come.” Bolg said, gesturing to Azog with a turn of his head.

“I could not ignore the call for aid.” Thorin said, “It is an honor to finally meet you, Bolg son of Azog.”

“And you, Thorin son of Thrain.” He answered, folding his arms as he looked Thorin over again, “You _are_ different.” he said.

Bolg turned back to Azog, “I have to take care of...” He gestured where he'd sent the Orclings away, and with a brief nod to Thorin he followed them.

Azog shook his head, but his expression was fond.

“I can see why you are proud of him.” Thorin said.

“He is young still.” Azog answered, “He will be less rude when he is older... but he is a fierce warrior, and a fine hunter, and he is _gentle._ ”

“And still and artist.” Thorin said, to Azog's quiet laugh.

Gundabad was strange and beautiful, and Thorin could envision spending months learning all the Orcs would teach him about it, but he was _tired_ and his Dwarves would be worrying about him.

“I have enjoyed this, but I must return to my Dwarves.” Thorin said, and Azog nodded in understanding.

.

Thorin knocked foreheads with Azog, and then pressed cheeks, before pulling up his hood and adjusting his scarf over his face in preparation to leave the warmth of Gundabad for the cold of the unnatural winter that raged outside.

His loyal Dwarves with their heavy packs were silent. They had all seen the celebrations, how carefully the food was rationed out equally, had seen the dances and heard the songs. They had all seen happy Orclings being coddled by their parents, and the tenderness in the eyes of bearing Orcs as they nursed their babies – and Thorin knew how they were feeling, that confusion when _he_ had first begun to see Orcs as _people_ like any other people.

They were not so surprised now that he should count an Orc as a friend.

“Gundabad will not forget.” Azog said, and Thorin nodded to him once as he stepped back.

The gates of Gundabad opened, and he led his loyal Dwarves out into the cold to return home to Erebor.

Gundabad would not forget that they had a friend in Erebor – and Thorin would see to it that Erebor did not forget either that Gundabad was a friend to them.

.


End file.
